The Person You Don't Know
by Alioseven
Summary: Lestrade learns some of the reasons why Sherlock turned to drugs and promises himself he'll do all he can to bring the boy back


"I didn't always feel this way."

Lestrade's eyes widened at the sudden burst of grumbling speech to emanate from the skinny figure in the cramped hospital bed to his left. Taking a deep breath through his nose, the DI leaned forwards in the chair and rested his forearms on his knees, clasping his hands in front of him. "No?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock's reply came as croaky as his first words followed by a rustling as he moved in the thin bed. He turned his head against the pillow, the oxygen line in his nose uncomfortable, and looked across at Lestrade. "I was normal once."

"I wouldn't call you abnormal now, Sherlock." Lestrade responded with a frown furrowing his brow and lapped his tongue across his lips. He'd been sitting here an hour and a half, waiting for Sherlock to wake following an accident at a crime scene which had seen Sherlock knocked off his feet by a speeding vehicle. Lestrade had taken it as a blessing in disguise, though, in a perverse way; Sherlock was high and needed help and this was the perfect way to gain it. "Troubled, maybe that's more accurate."

Sherlock watched Lestrade as he turned his head a little, their eyes meeting. Sherlock shrugged up one shoulder sluggishly, "I wasn't like this before." He rephrased.

"So what happened?" Greg opened out his hands in questioning, "What changed?"

Sherlock blinked slowly, unlocking his gaze from the DI's and shrugged again. "Not sure." He blinked as though using his lashes as wipers against his glossing eyes. "My parents, in part, and my brother; but mostly it was me that changed."

"At least you own that," Lestrade supposed, sitting back in the chair again, and crossed his left ankle over his knee, folding his hands into a clasp around his waist, his elbows resting on the wooden arms of the high-backed chair.

"My father was an adulterer." Sherlock took a shaky breath through his nose, the line blowing oxygen with each inhale. "My mother was a whore and my brother, for his part, was my constant. And then he went to school, to University and I was left to tackle it myself, to cope with it when I didn't understand it. I never forgave Mycroft for that but it didn't seem to matter because he'd never forgiven my birth. My mother was too old to have more children and yet I arrived anyway, a product of the menopause and carelessness on their part; an accident, a mistake. I came and Mycroft's world fell apart."

Lestrade's brow creased, more in understanding of the sibling rivalry that existed between Sherlock and Mycroft than of anything like confusion; petty, childish arguments that were spurred on by their shared inability to bury the hatchet anywhere but in the other's head.

"Our father never warmed to me, begrudged by arrival almost as much as Mycroft. But Mycroft was different; he seemed to accept me as I came whereas my father beat me for my differences." Sherlock sighed as he moved, his bruised sternum aching as he breathed. "I could read my father so easily and saw through him in seconds – I told Mycroft about his activities outside of the home and Mycroft told my mother and then everything got worse. My father moved away and I never saw him again."

"How old were you?" The DI's voice was surprisingly emotional in the dark room.

"Six."

"That young?" Greg shook his head.

"Mature enough to understand that Mycroft couldn't keep secrets and my mother was as guilty as my father in the infidelity stakes." Sherlock coughed. "That summer, Mycroft went to board at school and my mother became more and more secluded and Mycroft visited less and less. I read, I learned, I grew, I followed in Mycroft's footsteps to school and fell instantly into the wrong rhythm. Trouble follows me, Lestrade."

"I had noticed," Greg sighed, reaching up to rub a weary hand through his hair, a yawn stretching his jaw.

"I was expelled from school and sent to another, eventually found something close to normality and managed a year and a half at University before I became dependent upon substances for recreational highs." Sherlock licked his lips lethargically. "Mycroft didn't help me once, hasn't helped me once. Not close-range. Our father died last month and he knew yet he didn't tell me, not until yesterday…" Sherlock swallowed.

Lestrade closed his eyes and sighed heavily; that explained why Sherlock had arrived in as bad a state as he had this evening. A drug addict though he was, Sherlock respected Lestrade's word on never arriving to a scene under the influence of anything – usually, anyway – knowing Lestrade would refuse him any cases until he was clean. He only slipped on that when things were bad; when something happened that his emotionally devoid body couldn't comprehend.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." Greg sat forward again and looked into Sherlock's bloodshot eyes, "I am sorry about your Dad, about your past. I know there are things that have happened or that you've done or had done to you that have shaped you this way. I know there's a lot of hurt and I'm sorry. But this-," he gestured at Sherlock, "You, pumped full of junk at my crime scenes, won't happen again, it _cannot_ happen again, Sherlock."

"It won't." Sherlock's curls, flat and unwashed, rustled against the pillow. "I won't." he sounded close to tears, but Lestrade said nothing.

"Get help," Lestrade sat forwards, patting his heavy hand against Sherlock's arm. "Get clean, get healthy, and I'll be here waiting for you. You're indispensable, Sherlock but you're not entitled." He rose to his feet and dug his hands into his pockets. "Call me when you're clean and we'll talk. Got it?" he watched the minute nod of Sherlock's head form the young man's reply before he turned slowly, shoes noisy against the linoleum floor, and walked briskly from the room.

Sherlock would get clean, he knew, and he'd call and cases would be solved and work would be steady and Sherlock, with Lestrade's aid, would be compensated for his help. But Lestrade also knew that they'd be back in this position again and probably only six months down the line. But he wasn't about to give up on Sherlock – he saw too much of himself in the man; so much water had passed under the bridge of Lestrade and his childhood and he was damned if he was letting Sherlock face his demons alone.

* * *

**Title comes from "You Don't Know" by Westlife - check it out, real angsty. **


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